Sleepless in Storybrooke
by tellmesomethinglove
Summary: CS AU inspired by the movie "Sleepless in Seattle." Emma Swan is a rational adult-a requirement of most grade school teachers, but something about a stranger's voice on the radio has her questioning everything she thought she knew. Including her feelings for the man she promised to marry. Captain Swan.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note: As the title would suggest, this fic was inspired by "Sleepless in Seattle," but it will be its own story, not just a cut-and-paste replica of the film.**_

* * *

He said it so casually, like it was just another word. And maybe for him it was. Another day, another diagnosis. But for Killian, those two syllables would never quiet. It'd been several minutes, and the ringing in his ears had only increased.

 _"_ _Cancer,"_ the man had said as he leaned across his desk, the proper balance of sympathetic and professionally detached. _"I'm sorry."_

"What—" Killian swallowed against the forming lump in his throat. "What do we do now?"

The doctor smiled—no, not a smile. A subtle twitch, come to break apart his façade. Come as the destroyer of hope, small though it was. Naught but a glimmer before the light was quelled by an involuntary reflex. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. If this was a year ago, or even six months, then _maybe_ …"

His words were lost to that incessant ringing as Killian turned to his wife. Even now, she was the portrait of composure, her eyes clear of redness, her back straight, shoulders squared, but not stiff. He took her hand—more for her comfort or his own, he didn't know. When she didn't look over, despite the vise-like grip on his hand, Killian knew that he was her breaking point.

She'd wait until they were alone to fall apart.

The doctor blathered on about "final arrangements," and "making the most" of the time they had left, but Killian stopped listening around, "approximately six weeks," his mind racked with an unanswerable question.

What were they going to tell their son?

—

Liam was braver than Killian gave him credit for, even as they lowered the sleek black casket into the ground, and he didn't know which was more potent: the swell of fatherly pride or the ache in his chest. No one so young should have cause for this kind of courage. He twirled the white rose between fingers, waiting his turn. At Killian's unspoken signal, the lad stepped forward and said his final goodbye.

—

"I don't want to move."

Killian massaged the bridge of his nose as he set aside the book he'd given up reading at least twenty minutes ago, when Liam's complaint had been that he'd heard dreadful, terrible things about America.

 _"_ _What do they even eat?"_ He'd scrunched up his face at the very idea.

 _"_ _Food, same as the rest of us."_ Had been Killian's response, but his son was not convinced.

 _"_ _Seems like a wretched place."_

"We've been through this," he said, his voice perhaps a bit too stern.

He'd had to rein in his temper too frequently the past eight months. With his superiors, with clients, with the little boy who'd suffered the same tragedy as him, and yet suffered it uniquely. Killian had more years with Milah than Liam had on Earth—and they were good years, filled with memories that would carry him through until they met again, in whatever life waited beyond this one. But the child presently curling up in Killian's bed had been forced to face a future without his mother.

Would Killian could shoulder that burden for him.

Liam looked up at him with the eyes of his namesake, and Killian's frustration dissipated. "Come here, lad." He crawled closer, tucking himself beneath his father's outstretched arm. "I know change is hard, but you trust me, don't you?" Liam nodded but held firmly to his frown. "Then trust that I have your best interest at heart."

"Yours, too?"

Killian smiled, as much as Killian ever did anymore. "Aye. Mine, too."

"What kind of name is Storybrooke, anyway?"

It was the point on the globe where Killian's finger had landed. A point that, the more his eyes drifted to it and away from his work, had become like a promise of possibility, a fresh landscape, where everything he saw, every place he went, every person he talked to didn't remind him of the one he'd lost.

It was the one thing they needed most if they were to survive this: hope.

"Sounds made up."

Killian reached across the bedside table to turn out the light. "Goodnight, Liam."

"Tell me it doesn't sound made up."

"I guess we'll find out in a few days."


	2. Chapter 2

When Emma woke up that morning, she hadn't expected that by day's end, she'd be locked in a staring contest with an eight year old. She hadn't expected she'd need copious amounts of caffeine simply to reach a zombie-like state either, but that was really her own fault. She'd had a self-imposed rule since she'd started as a student teacher that forbade her from staying up past ten p.m. on the eve of a new school year, and it was a rule she'd stuck with, without fail, until last night.

The pattern had begun two weeks ago, on the drive home from Boston. A pattern she'd promised herself she'd break before it got out of hand.

 _"_ _Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"_

 _Emma smiled, if only to reassure her fiancé—that was going to take some getting used to—that she wasn't still ruffled by her parents' reactions to the news. "I'll be fine." She stood on tiptoes to deliver a peck on the lips that seemed enough to satisfy his apprehension. "Go," she said, "you'll be late. I'll call you when I get home."_

 _He cradled her face in one hand, another display of affection that would have to last them the next four months, grazing her cheek with his thumb. "They'll come around."_

 _"_ _They just want to make sure we're not rushing into anything. Which I get." Emma shrugged, hoping the rise and fall of her shoulders would allay her own doubts. She would've thought her parents trusted her judgment by now—would've thought she'd trust it, too. "But you're right." She tried another smile, this one feeling slightly more natural than the last. "You did manage to win over my dad, and that's more than I can say for other boyfriends I've had."_

 _"_ _You don't think he was being…insincere?"_

 _"_ _My dad doesn't fake very well—with him, what you see is what you get. Especially when it comes to scoundrels trying to steal his daughter's heart." The smile that accompanied this tease was her most genuine of the night, and she leaned into Graham's touch, suddenly reluctant to see him leave._

 _He'd made quite the impression at dinner. David had tried his best to be the stern, overprotective father, but he wasn't fooling anyone. When the toasts died down and the guests settled into quiet conversations, Mary Margaret pulled Emma aside to tell her how wonderful Graham was—and handsome, to boot. But was marriage really the appropriate step right now?_

 _Graham checked his watch and swore under his breath, something he rarely did even in the worst of moods. "I've got to go." He kissed Emma's cheek and headed for his car, parked behind hers. "Love you."_

 _Emma waved, holding her smile until his headlights disappeared on the horizon. With a quiet sigh, she climbed into her little yellow bug, programmed the radio to a station most likely to keep her awake on the drive to Maine, and set off into the night._

Clearly this kid wasn't going to blink, but Emma couldn't surrender her stance or she'd lose all semblance of authority. She wasn't entirely sure she hadn't already.

"What time did your dad say he'd be here?"

The kid crossed his arms, unperturbed by Emma's hardened gaze.

"Is he late often?"

This question was met with a shrug.

"Do you have another parent? An uncle? Someone else who might be able to come get you?"

His demeanor, which had been what Emma could only describe as combative until this point, shifted in an instant, his young features overcome by deep sorrow. "No," he said, "it's just my dad."

Just as quickly, Emma went from wondering if it would be detrimental to a child's emotional development to have him transferred to another class after only one day to wanting to buy the kid a pony or a race car, anything just to make him smile again. Few kids could do that—in her experience, the ones who could ended up being her favorite students. Not that she'd ever admit to having favorites. But there was always that one kid, every year, who got to her. She really didn't expect that kid to be Liam Jones.

"Where does your dad work? Maybe I could give him a call."

"He builds boats."

"That sounds like fun."

Another shrug as he stared down at his shoes. "I guess."

"When he gets here, I'm gonna have to tell him what you did." Emma tried to be gentle, but there was no avoiding this part of her job. "You understand that, don't you?"

 _The princess cut caught her eye every time she moved her hand to a new position on the wheel, as well as every light she passed, as though it meant to taunt her. She'd scarcely reached the city limits before she'd had enough. She removed the ring Graham had given her two weeks ago, to the day, and closed it in the glovebox, finally able to breathe without its knowing stare._

 _"_ _You're on the air with Doctor Hopper. Go ahead, caller."_

 _Emma went to change the station to anything but talk radio when a second voice came over the airwaves. "What kind of doctor are you?"_

 _"_ _You sound a lot younger than our regular callers." Doctor Hopper laughed. "I'm a psychiatrist—do you know what a psychiatrist is?"_

 _"_ _I'm eight, I'm not stupid."_

 _For the first time that night, Emma smiled without wondering if anyone could see through it._

 _"_ _How can I help you?" Asked Doctor Hopper._

 _"_ _My dad needs a new wife."_

 _"_ _Did the old one not work out?"_

 _"_ _My mum died."_

 _"_ _I'm sorry to hear that, young man."_

 _"_ _My name's—" A sharp beeping noise erupted from the speakers._

 _"_ _No names, please. There's a reason it's called Anon Hour."_

 _Emma made a second attempt to change the station before she got sucked into the psychobabble this guy was about to feed an innocent kid. But her hand paused mid-air when the shrink—who'd probably gotten his PhD from a cereal box—said, "How are you holding up?"_

 _"_ _Okay," the kid said softly._

 _"_ _You know it's okay to say you're_ not _okay…"_

 _The kid didn't respond._

 _"_ _Have you told your dad you've been feeling a bit down?"_

 _"_ _He doesn't want to talk about it—he'd rather pretend it didn't happen, I think."_

 _"_ _Do you think he might talk to me? Is he there with you?"_

 _"_ _Don't do it, kid," said Emma. "Hang up the phone."_

 _A brief bit of static was followed by a muffled cry of "Dad!" And a few moments later, a deep and impossibly attractive voice said, "Hello?" There was a long period of dead air after Doctor Hopper introduced himself and explained the situation._

 _"_ _Your son feels that since your wife died, you've closed yourself off to some of life's most precious gifts, the greatest of which is love."_

 _Emma made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Don't put words in the kid's mouth."_

 _He probably had a lecture coming his way as it was._

 _"_ _I think it may be difficult for him to open up to you about his concern for your well-being."_

 _The dad sighed. "What did you have in mind? Oi," his voice grew faint, "where do you think you're going? You started this, you're staying."_

 _"_ _I know this is all very painful," said Doctor Hopper in an overly sympathetic tone that made Emma cringe, "but how long ago did you lose your wife?"_

 _"_ _About nine months."_

 _"_ _Have you had many relationships in that time?"_

 _A long pause. "Not a one."_

 _"_ _And why is that?"_

 _"_ _Why the hell do you think?" Emma asked her radio._

 _"_ _Why the hell do you think?" The man echoed._

 _"_ _Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Said Hopper._

You're going to anyway.

 _"_ _I doubt I could stop you."_

 _"_ _How do you sleep at night?"_

 _"_ _He doesn't," a small voice answered in the distance._

 _"_ _I'm getting the sense that you're afraid to open yourself up," said Hopper, "for fear of being hurt again."_

 _Emma scoffed. "You get paid for this?"_

 _"_ _But you aren't the only one suffering," the doc continued. "Your son believes you might benefit from seeking out new love, and I have to say, I agree."_

 _"_ _I'm sure you do. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but what my wife and I had, it…it just doesn't happen twice. I was fortunate to have found that one person I was meant to spend my life with. Turns out, 'til death do us part' came sooner than either of us could've predicted."_

 _"_ _It sounds like you have a very bleak outlook on life."_

 _"_ _Screw you," said Emma._

 _The dad laughed, a single humorless note. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."_

 _Doctor Hopper tried to diffuse the situation, wrought with tension of his own making, and while the man on the other end of the call was hesitant, having Emma's full support for being so, the conversation eventually found an agreeable rhythm. And soon, the man was detailing every idiosyncrasy that made his late wife his perfect match._

 _"_ _Meeting her had been like breathing for the first time—suddenly my life had meaning. She was the part of myself I didn't know was missing until I'd found her, and I can't imagine feeling that way about anyone else. That may sound tragic—or_ bleak _—to you, and maybe it is, but it makes it all the more special, doesn't it? Knowing that for a short while, I experienced true happiness. Fleeting and unparalleled and never to be repeated. I consider myself a lucky man, Mr. Hopper, simply for the privilege of having known her. My son and I will find our way through this, together, but marrying someone for the sake of filling an unfillable void isn't the answer."_

 _Emma was parked outside a 24-hour diner before she realized she'd stopped. Only when the program ended, Doctor Hopper asking the man he'd dubbed_ Sleepless in Storybrooke _to follow up and let them know if his search yielded any results, did she take in her surroundings, and the rumbling in her stomach._

 _She shook her head as she pulled her key from the ignition and pocketed her phone. "Didn't hear a word he'd said."_

 _She was seated in a booth, reading over a grease-stained menu when the name finally registered. Storybrooke._

It was one of the most popular Anon Hours they'd ever had, and the station had replayed it at least twice since its first airing—once as part of their "best of" segment. Emma may have recorded it using a cassette she'd found in the boxes Graham had stored in the attic, along with the near-antique radio her dad had given her.

 _"_ _Should fit in just fine with Storybrooke's advanced technology,"_ he'd said with a hearty laugh. The one her mom called _classic David._

And she may have listened to it a few times during the last weeks of summer, justifying her interest with rationalizations even she wasn't buying: the house was too quiet with Graham away on business, and listening to the same program on repeat made it feel less empty. She hadn't slept alone in years, and she needed something to counteract her tossing and turning. She thought she'd seen a shadow creep past the mirror—just the thought of that last one _had_ sufficiently frightened her to the point that she'd turned on every light she could find, including the TVs.

But she knew the truth, even if she refused to acknowledge it. She had a crush on a voice. It'd gotten to the point where she found herself on alert for it when she went about her errands in town—waiting in line at the grocery store, grabbing a morning coffee at Granny's…

She was pretty sure she'd passed the first stages of becoming a stalker.

"All right, kid," she said to Liam when the clock struck four. "Looks like I'll be taking you home."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"In extreme cases."

"Does an hour count as _extreme_?"

Emma arched her brow. "You want a ride or not?"

Liam mumbled, "Yes, Ma'am."

Just as the kid slung his book bag over his shoulder, the door opened and a man, whom Emma assumed was the one they'd been waiting for, entered. He had dark hair and blue eyes and pulled off a plaid shirt like no one she'd ever seen. The sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows and the exposed skin was dusted with light blond specs.

"Sorry I'm late," he said in a deep and impossibly attractive voice—

Emma swallowed a gasp as the familiar sound tickled her ears. The sound that'd lulled her to sleep for weeks.

He looked as dumbstruck as she felt. "Are you…Miss Swan?"

"Emma," she said, amazed at her ability to maintain eye contact when all she wanted to do was crawl under a rock and hide—if he knew the things she'd thought about him when all she'd had to go on was a voice…

It was just…people didn't talk that way anymore—not the people she knew. Especially not the men who'd claimed undying affection for her. Not even Graham. She'd never realized how much it bothered her that he only ever said, _"Love you,"_ and what a drastic difference the "I" really made.

It didn't matter. Her weird obsession needed to stop.

"You must be Liam's dad."

"Killian." He held out his hand and Emma accepted, nearly jumping back at the tingle running up her arm, like a jolt, or a _spark_ …

Like…

 _"_ _Magic."_

 _"_ _You can't be serious." Emma gave her mom a strange look. "You don't really believe in that stuff, do you?"_

 _Mary Margaret shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah? I mean, not the whole 'hocus pocus, abracadabra' thing, but you know that spark you get when you meet someone new?"_

 _Emma's expression answered for her._

 _"_ _Oh, honey, you don't know what you're missing. Like when I met your father—after one touch, I just_ knew _."_

 _"_ _How is that possible? You didn't know anything about him—he could've been a serial killer."_

 _Mary Margaret laughed. "Where you got your cynicism, I'll never know." She cupped Emma's face in both hands and kissed her forehead, like she was prone to do during the more momentous occasions in her daughter's life—first dance recital, first prom, graduations. "I hope you don't settle for simply_ good enough _. I hope you hold out for the spark, because you, more than anyone I know, deserve a little magic."_

"He wasn't any trouble, was he?"

"Hm?" Emma returned to the present to discover her hand still clutched firmly in Killian's, a detail she promptly remedied. "He was…" Emma looked at Liam, who waited with wide eyes at his father's side. "He was the model of good behavior."

Killian's gaze drifted to his miniature doppelganger, seeming skeptical, but he didn't press the matter. "Well, it was nice to meet you…Emma."

Emma smiled. "It was nice meeting you, too." When Killian turned toward the exit, she mouthed to his son, "You owe me one," to which the kid's response was to wink.

The little shit.

—

For the next week, Liam Jones was the perfect angel, and it had Emma wondering if that first day had been due to the stress of starting a new school, in a new town, or if his dad had known she was lying on the kid's behalf and had talked with him.

At the end of every day, Liam conducted what was feeling more and more like a job interview while they waited for his dad to pick him up. It'd started out innocently enough— _"What's your favorite color, flavor of ice cream, sports team?"_ But it quickly evolved into, _"Where do you see yourself in five years and when did you first realize you wanted to mold the minds of tomorrow?"_

That afternoon was no different. He approached her desk after all the other students had gone, this time employing flattery as a means of extracting information.

"Great lesson today, Miss Swan. I wish more of my teachers back home had been like you."

"All right, kid, out with it."

"Out with…what?" He picked at the corner of her desk, not meeting her eye.

"What's your angle?"

"Angle?"

He looked up to find Emma wearing an expression that warned him against playing dumb. "What do you want? There's got to be a reason for all these cryptic questions."

"I…" he was back to chipping away the finish, scrunching up half his face until one eye closed, "…want you to marry my dad."


End file.
